I signed for a room in this house because I had nowhere else to be. I read the terms once and told myself I understood them.
I did not.

Jude set Sunday aside in the first week. He never raises his voice about it. He has never had to.
Last Sunday the overdue paperwork went on the coffee table and I went bare over his knee. Measured strokes. He counted, not me.
By the end the sting had turned into want. He took me on the rug before it faded.

That is the shame of it. Not his knee. That I leave the bills unopened on purpose now.
He says Sunday and my whole week rearranges itself behind it.

He wants me there again at four, and longer this time.
Over his knee. Bare. Struck until I stop pretending. Kept there for as long as it suits him.
One word from me ends the terms, the house, and every stable thing I have, and I have never come close to saying it.
What kind of woman buys a roof this way? What is left of me if I hand the key back?

A full-length domestic discipline over the knee submission erotic novel featuring a woman with nowhere to go and the man whose house comes with terms.